


Interlude: Homecoming

by angel_deux



Series: Won't You Let Us Wander [11]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, also a good time to remind you all that the fix-it tag is a PROMISE, angst train back in business, it's jyn's turn to be a lil ridiculous now, the continued misadventures of Rogue One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_deux/pseuds/angel_deux
Summary: Cassian and Jyn meet with Leia and Mon Mothma to discuss Rogue One's role in the Rebellion.





	

On the way back to Hoth, Cassian paces. He helps out. He integrates himself so smoothly back into the Rebellion, so eagerly, that the post-battle comedown seems harsher than usual for Jyn, who sits in silence and tries not to feel anything at all.

It’s too new, too fragile. It was too hard won. She can’t help but wonder: what if he wants to go back? _Home_ , the message had said, and she would have to be a monster to resent it, but there’s a part of her that felt her gut clench with the unfairness of it, and she hasn’t quite managed to convince it to relax.

This is what she was afraid of. Home. The Rebellion is home for him. It always has been. What if, now that they know what he’s done, the panic that had made it seem impossible to him lifts, and he changes his mind? What if he thinks he can swallow whatever is coming, and he brings them back into the Rebellion after they’ve only just left it?

Can _she_ stomach it?

She settles back against the wall, strapped into her seat, and she lets the exhaustion take her. She exists now in that period after a thing is over, when the haze of battle, of action, lifts. That slow, trickling time when everything comes back, her memories sharpening, everything around her reminding her of everything that happened before. It seems like this entire day might have happened to someone else. Or like a dream, the kind that melts into a nightmare eventually: waking up in Cassian’s arms, bare skin on bare skin, then She’bara’s hands around her throat and the sound of the detonator and the kiss on the battlefield.

When Cassian sits next to her, she’s jolted from her half-sleeping state. He shushes her unthinkingly. His hand touches her knee. Briefly, before he pulls it back. There are soldiers all around them.

“It’s just me,” he says, and she nods. She’s too tired to open her eyes. Or maybe it’s fear, genuine fear of Cassian being able to see the worry that would likely be crowding behind them, searching him, trying to find meaning in his own expression. She hears him buckling himself in, settling down, and his leg is warm against hers, their thighs pressed together.

His hand drops to his leg, falls to the dip in the curves of their thighs where they meet, so his knuckles are resting gently against her. Unthinking, smiling only a little, Jyn lets hers do the same, letting the back of her hand fall flush against his. It’s warm, but it doesn’t chase the thoughts away.

Can she stomach it?

She was starting to make a place for herself in the Rebellion, with the familiar faces in Alpha Base and Leia and Mon Mothma and even _Draven_ , after a fashion. But that was warped, was damaged by Draven’s pragmatism and the fact that she couldn’t even hate him for the choices he had made. It came to remind her of the time between Eadu and Scarif, when everything about the Rebellion seemed like a twisted portrait of utopia. When she asked herself: how is _this_ the best hope for the galaxy? How are _these_ people the ones who are supposed to lead us to salvation? It wasn’t that she thought she could do better, or she didn’t understand that difficult choices had to be made. It just seemed _hopeless_ , made her feel helpless. Made her feel like maybe the galaxy deserved what was coming if half-measures towards goodness was the best they could do.

She doesn’t think like that anymore. She has met too many good people, has listened to their reverent whispers about the heroes of Scarif and about Leia and Luke and Han. She has seen up close the good the Rebellion can do. And she understands the necessity of the dark parts, too. Understands the necessity of men like Cassian, like Thane, like Draven. People who have to make impossible choices between no good options so that people like Luke can look around with gleaming eyes and feel that the Rebellion gives them _purpose_. That the Rebellion is unassailably _good_.

Her fear, her trepidation, it’s a selfish thing. She loathes it, hates the way it feels sour in the back of her throat, because all she can see is Cassian, leaving the ship on Eadu with his rifle. All she can see is the look on his face after the battle on Kazadu. The _emptiness_. Coming up with last words for her on the Afflictor, because dying for his cause was so inevitable for him that it was a matter of course for him to try and ease _her_ pain while he was suffering from his own.

What was it she had said to Leia? That it’s easy to talk about the hypothetical cost of a war when you aren’t speaking of anyone specific. When you aren’t speaking of the man you love.

If they take him back, if he wants to go back, she knows what will happen. She knows that it will come between them, the things that weighed heavily between them in the beginning. He will drift back into it, will lose some of the ease he’s had, the ability to close his eyes and rest without constantly thinking of fighting, constantly thinking of new ways to sacrifice himself for the good of something greater than himself.

_Selfish_ , she reminds herself. To want him to keep some part of him whole for her, even to want him to keep some part of him whole for _him_. Because Cassian has never cared about that. Cassian was always looking for ways to cut off pieces of himself so he could hand them away to people who needed them. It never mattered to him if he didn’t live to see the future he was fighting for. It was enough for him to know that he had done all he could to make sure it could happen. But that isn’t enough for Jyn. She wants to fight. She wants to live to see her fight matter. She knows it for the selfishness it is, but it still churns low in her stomach.

If they go back – maybe, even more horrifying, even if they _don’t_ go back – she will lose him. Not to a blaster bolt or a knife in some alley on some distant planet in a mission gone wrong (although that possibility will always be there), but to the realization that she isn’t enough. That she _can’t_ be enough, because she isn’t willing to give every part of both of them to the cause. She told him that it was okay for him to need different things, and she truly does believe that, but will _he_? If she needs him to turn away from something because it’s too dangerous, or too much, or too painful for him, will he listen? Or will he look at her and see the selfishness for what it is?

She _wants_ him desperate for something new. She _wants_ him to turn to her, helpless, and ask her to fill the Rebellion-shaped void in his heart. She would never admit it to him. How could she? She loathes it even deep inside herself. But she wants so much more than he would ever be able to give her, and even as she loves him for his dedication for the cause, she wishes, in some terrible secret part of herself, that he didn’t have it. That she could keep him safe and beside her, that she didn’t have to watch him lose himself all over again.

She will lose him, and there’s nothing she can do about it except to try and protect the parts of her heart that haven’t yet been irreparably tied with his.

His fingers twitch against hers, lace through hers, thumb charting a gentle course across her knuckles, and with a wry sort of grin, her eyes still closed, she realizes just how little of her heart can still be saved.

* * *

The fear becomes headier once they’ve started to land. And by then, it’s too late to do anything to change it. Jyn’s eyes keep flickering to the window, watching the snowy expanse of this planet she thought she’d never see again. _Hoped_ she’d never see again.

The Rebellion, she thinks, was never going to leave them alone entirely. Even if they had run to the farthest reaches of the Outer Rim. Even if they had never seen a single X or Y-Wing for the rest of their days. It was never going to leave them alone. Draven was right about Cassian, and to a lesser extent he was right about the woman that Jyn has become since Scarif. Cassian will never be satisfied if he isn’t giving everything he has to the Rebellion. And Jyn?

If Jyn knew what she needed to feel satisfied, to feel truly satisfied, maybe that would make things easier.

Maybe it would only make things worse.

* * *

They are taken, with a lack of ceremony that makes Jyn feel even more suspicious, through the halls of Echo Base. Still incomplete, but already bigger and better put together than the Alpha base that Jyn was once so proud of. It makes Jyn feel lost, trapped, the farther they move into the meandering cave system, pushing past volunteers and soldiers and officers all working together to scrape out room for more equipment, more recruits, more fighting power. They are greeted by people who recognize them, with a friendliness that makes Jyn wonder if they have any idea what they’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

Cassian notices it too, but he approaches it with more care than Jyn had thought to: he is careful in every interaction. Pointedly ignores any questions. He is polite, distant, friendly enough.

Jyn wonders, more than once, what he could possibly be thinking. The blank spy’s face hasn’t proved so impossible, so impassible, for such a long time.

They are left alone momentarily in the war room, and Jyn is relieved. Relieved to finally turn to look at him, and she finds that the expression on his face tells her that he’s glad for the same reasons. They turn to each other like they’ve been separated since they left Kopha. Like this is their first time seeing each other since then. In a way, it is.

“I’m sorry you have to be here,” he says. “I know this makes you uncomfortable.”

“Sorry? As if I wouldn’t have come with you anyway?” Jyn scoffs, and the pinched expression on his face melts quickly into relief.

“I just…I didn’t want to drag you back into this. I know it’s…not ideal.”

Jyn shakes her head. Not ideal for _her_ , maybe, but if it’s what he wants…

It’s a scary thought, sudden and unbidden: if this is what he wants, she’ll do it. Has she _ever_ allowed someone else’s whims to come before hers like this? Not because of an order, or because she was trying to appease someone to stay alive, or even because it was a good idea in the long run even if she hated it, but because she wants him to be happy. How far would she go for him? Does she _have_ a limit?

“It’s fine,” she says, but her smile or her tone must be unconvincing, because Cassian leans closer.

“We will hear what they have to say,” he says. His voice is certain, firm. Leaving no room for questions or arguments. “But we’re Rogue One now, and that isn’t going to change. We aren’t coming back.”

Her relief is too instantaneous. She can’t try to hide it. But still, guilt. A flush of shame.

“Cassian, if you...”

“I don’t. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to have to hide this, us, because of bureaucratic rules. I don’t want to feel the shame of not doing enough because I can’t pull the trigger on someone who I don’t think deserves to die. If they can help us, if they can offer us support, then that will be enough. If we can be allowed to help them without…” he shakes his head, sits down in his chair, and Jyn sits beside him, waiting, anticipating, sliding her hand across the table to grip his. “I’m getting ahead of myself. They may not even want me back.”

“Of course they want you back. They’d be mad not to.”

He squeezes her fingers briefly, though he doesn’t look at her, and he chews on his lip thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says.

“Cassian…”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. But you have this horrible habit of convincing yourself that you don’t need the things you need.”

When he glances over at her, his smile is small, surprised. Touched, she thinks, that she knows him so well.

“Believe me,” Cassian says wryly. Not quite a joke – no, he’s too frightened for that, Jyn thinks – but at least aware of the absurdity of Jyn saying that to him as if he doesn’t know. “Being back on Hoth is a particularly fitting place for me to remind myself of what I need.”

She wishes that she was the kind of person who could take a thing like that at face value. Who could look down at their clasped hands, blush, accept the implication. But she isn’t. She’s the kind of person who grips his hand more tightly, leans forward, and says, “twenty years, Cassian.”

“Twenty years, and I never would have survived twenty more,” Cassian returns.

That, at least, reaches her. She leans back in her seat, closes her eyes, releases his hand to rub at her eyes. She’s just so _tired_. Perhaps they should have asked for a day of leave before coming here, but she has a feeling that, were they still on Kopha, they would be working already toward the next goal. They aren’t the type of people who rest well.

“I don’t want you to give up everything,” she says.

“I wouldn’t.”

“You almost did.”

Kazadu. Jyn, in the mines, hearing his voice coming over the comms. Certain it was some other soldier, just a trick of her mind, until “Andor’s on the tank” came through loud and she understood.

“That was different.”

“How?”

“You’re afraid I’m giving up everything for you,” he says, and he’s hit upon it, of course, so she falls quiet again. “You don’t want it to be all about you.”

“Of course I don’t. What person would?”

“Plenty of people, I expect. Jyn, it isn’t only because of you. I don’t want to come back. I don’t want to go back to holding myself so…” he sighs, and even now, as he expresses a desire not to be this man, he _is_ this man, is too restrained to say the words that need saying. “I don’t want to be in a cage anymore. You unlocked the cage the first time. Showed me what freedom was. That doesn’t mean my unwillingness to return to it is only for your sake.”

A suddenly perfect explanation, and even _he_ looks surprised to have said it. Jyn laughs. She can’t help it.

Before Cassian can reply, looking in fairly good spirits – proud of himself, she thinks, for finding the words when he so often can’t – the door opens. His expression falls as quickly as her spirits do.

They both get to their feet when Mon Mothma and Leia enter the room. Mon Mothma is wearing her customary long white robes, though they’re sturdier than the flimsy material she was wearing on Yavin, lined with fur. Leia is dressed in sensible, white pants and a puffy white jacket, her small frame looking even smaller in the form-fitting material, but at least she looks warm. Jyn is already beginning to regret only having taken a light jacket with her from Kopha. So quickly, she forgot how the cold of Hoth bites into a person.

“Sit down,” Leia says. Her tone, acerbic and annoyed, isn’t totally unexpected, but Jyn still feels a bit defensive, her face flashing into a scowl. Cassian, next to her, looks stricken. Leia sighs, curses under her breath. “Relax, both of you. You look like kicked tauntauns.”

“What Leia means is that there’s no need for formality,” Mon Mothma says. Her ever-present patience seems motherly when she looks at the princess. Almost indulgent. And she _smiles_. Jyn risks a glance at Cassian and sees that he’s slowly sinking back into his seat, gaze wary through the blankness he is struggling to maintain.

“You kriffing nerf herders,” Leia says, slamming both hands down on the table. “What were you _thinking_?”

“All right,” Mon Mothma says, nearly laughing. “You’re giving them the wrong message. Captain Andor, Sergeant Erso. It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances. But before the princess confuses you further, please understand that it isn’t our intention to punish either of you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Leia says. Mon Mothma gives another patient, ethereal sigh, her expression never wavering.

“Leia, I believe, is simply _hurt_ that you chose to leave instead of speaking to her directly when the matter first arose.”

Both Rebellion leaders, in unison, look to Cassian for an answer. He seems surprised that they’ve stopped speaking. Seems even _more_ surprised that they want something from him.

“I,” he starts out with. Swallows. “Well…”

“He…” Jyn tries, but she can’t really figure out what to say either, and they exchange a helpless look, drawing another sigh from Mon Mothma.

“Again, I must repeat that you aren’t in any trouble with us,” she says.

Cassian, seizing on that, to no surprise, says, “with _you_.”

“The Council was…irritated, of course, to find that you fled your responsibilities in the aftermath of an operation, taking an entire team with you.” Mon Mothma’s voice is dry, but it holds no real censure. Leia’s show of support is a lot more blunt, in true Leia fashion.

“But they can fuck themselves,” she says. Even Mon Mothma looks startled by _that_.

“I don’t know _where_ you got that mouth,” she says, though even that sounds slightly fond.

“Years of dealing with politicians,” Leia replies, though her tone is softer than it usually is. Even _she_ has trouble being biting to Mon Mothma, apparently. “Anyway, I meant it. It doesn’t matter what the Council says, because they’re bigger idiots than you two. And it’s easily explained away once this is all over. Secret mission. Accountability. Political nonsense.”

“When it’s over,” Cassian repeats. Leia rolls her eyes so severely that it looks physically uncomfortable. But Mon Mothma’s look is piercing, understanding.

“You don’t want to come back,” she says. It’s not a question, but Cassian nods as if it was.

“I…I think we would both prefer…I don’t assume that you _want_ me to come back, but…if you did. I think we would both rather stay somewhat…”

“For fuck’s sake, Cassian,” Leia says, incredulous. “Just say it.”

“We like the work we’re doing now,” Cassian says. Defensive, tense, daring either of them to argue and yet hoping that they won’t. “ _I_ like the work I’m doing now.”

That strikes something in both Leia and Mon Mothma, and they glance at each other and then look down at the table in unison, collecting the words they need to address the Rancor in the room.

Jyn, acting on impulse, lays her hand across Cassian’s thigh. _I’m here_ , her fingers say, squeezing his leg gently. _I’m right beside you_.

“I suppose you don’t need me to tell you that we were all very distressed to learn…well, to fully understand...”

“Draven showed us your files,” Leia says, and she doesn’t quite meet Cassian’s eyes. _Please_ , Jyn wants to say. _Please look at him. He needs you to look at him_.

“ _General_ Draven,” Mon Mothma says, with another quiet, fond look in Leia’s direction. “Has been reprimanded for the part he played in convincing you to leave, Jyn. He offered up the explanation himself, in fact.”

“Remind me to thank him,” Jyn says wryly, and Cassian’s fingers join hers on his leg, squeezing a warning.

“I always knew. Not _what_ you were doing. All of you in your division. But I could see the way you returned from missions like ghosts, drifting past us, hardly seeing. Dead eyed, empty men and women coming and going like the tide. Children, at first, but none of you stayed children for long. I worried for all of you. Worried for what we were doing to you. But I suppose there was a part of me that didn’t _want_ to know, and I’m sorry for that. We could have been more attentive to our soldiers’ needs. Not everything can be fixed by a poorly-stocked infirmary. Not everything can be healed with bacta. Captain Andor, I, and the entire Rebellion, owe you and all the others like you a sincere apology, just as we owe you our thanks.”

Leia says nothing. Stares down at the table, biting the inside of her cheek. Jyn bristles defensively at both of them. Leia, avoidance. Mon Mothma, pity. Cassian doesn’t need this. Cassian was _afraid_ of this.

“You owe him a chance to start over on his own terms,” she snaps, and Cassian’s fingers on hers are soothing this time, not as sharp. Dulled, maybe, by whatever hurt has been done to him by this moment.

Leia looks up finally, her eyes sparkling with something like mirth. “We owe him a hell of a lot more than that, but the Council wouldn’t let me promote him into Draven’s position.”

“Is Draven gone, then?” Jyn wonders. That seems unlikely.

“Well the plan was for me to kill him, but…”

“All right,” Mon Mothma says again, exasperated, fond, sighing heavily. Jyn hides a surprised grin. “No, General Draven maintains his position. Captain Andor, whatever we can do for you, we will. We’ve already taken pains to begin to explain your absence to the Council as a prolonged undercover assignment with the rest of your team. General Draven has lent his support to that particular fiction. I don’t think I need to tell you my preference. But if you’d like to leave, of course, I’m not going to stop you. You’re owed far more than I could ever give you.”

* * *

Cassian doesn’t know how to feel. The pity he was afraid of is written on her face. And Leia, though she’s joking, though her wit is as sharp as ever, he can see the reproach in her eyes. _Why didn’t you ever tell me, Cassian?_ she would ask, if they were alone.

It’s not far from what he feared, and yet he finds it possible to endure. _Survivable_ , he had said to Jyn, not so long ago. It’s survivable.

Jyn’s hand is entwined with his own, the weight of it heavy on his leg, and he can survive this.

“I want to help the Rebellion,” he says, the words dragged from somewhere deep. “I will always want to help. But I think I can speak for both of us?” a glance to Jyn, and she nods. “When I say that I can’t come back. Not fully. I, we, we’re doing some good on our own, and it’s what I want to continue doing.”

That makes the older woman smile, and she looks down at the table. Cassian realizes with a moment of reluctant admiration that this is probably what she wanted. Mon Mothma has always been so _good_ at negotiation.

“A compromise might be easier than you might think,” she says.

* * *

In the end, she’s right. It _is_ easy. Cassian keeps waiting for it to all be revealed as a trap. As a trick. Or for one of them to say “however, you will have to report to Draven directly”. _Something_ that would make it impossible.

But they don’t.

“I suppose we should have known you and your team would live up to your name,” Mon Mothma says, once negotiations are over (Jyn, to no surprise, did most of the actual negotiating, though he feels a warm spike of fondness for how often she looked over at him to gauge his temperament, to figure out what he was thinking. How often she was right without him having to say anything at all). “Rogue One.”

“An even more fitting title now,” Leia agrees.

A secret team, not technically affiliated, able to take on assignments that the Alliance could not politically touch. Able, also, to refuse the assignments they don’t want.

Leia has been holding her tongue, Cassian thinks. She wants to be happy for him, but she can’t fathom it, ever wanting to leave, even if he’s not going far. It’s impossible to explain, so Cassian is glad that she doesn’t ask him to. It’s impossible to put into words the feeling of being released from a cage you’ve grown into, finding that you can no longer fit yourself back into it once you’ve been without.

“Thank you,” he says, to both of them, and it’s sincerely meant. There is still the underlying feeling of disappointment. He wasn’t wrong about how they’re looking at him. How they’re _not_ looking at him. Pity and concern. The disgust is lacking, fortunately. He doesn’t know what he would do if he had actually seen _that_.

“I’ll return you to the rest of your team in the morning, along with a few hundred soldiers. I’ll be going with you to oversee the negotiations with the leader of the resistance.” Leia still looks dissatisfied, even though she smiles when she speaks, and Cassian wishes he knew what to say to her. Wishes he could help her understand.

* * *

In the hallway, after, Jyn waits for Cassian to finish speaking with Mon Mothma and Leia. She accepted a handshake from the older woman and a surprisingly strong hug from the younger (a furious whisper of “I knew something was wrong. I knew you wouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have let you” still ringing against her ear). She feels both the relief of it being _over_ and the tension of not knowing where it will go from here.

_Do you really think that he will ever be satisfied if he’s giving less than his whole self to the Rebellion?_

Jyn doesn’t know. Jyn can’t tell. Can’t read him the way she thinks she should be able to by now. Is Cassian happy with this arrangement? Or is this just the closest thing to happiness he thinks he can get?

Half measures. Cassian doesn’t seem the type to accept them. Not from others. Not from himself. He seems so natural here, and yet he insists that he doesn’t want to come back. Should she trust that? Should she accept it? Or should she know by now that Cassian is the type to accept untenable positions because it’s all he thinks he deserves?

“Huh. This is surprising.”

She turns, already grinning, to see Han and Luke staring at her, wrapped up in scarves, clearly having just returned from outside.

“Figured you’d drag your ass back in here eventually,” Han says. Luke shakes his head.

“No, no way. She’s not back. You’re not back, right? I can tell.”

“Don’t listen to him. He thinks he can read minds, now.”

“I never said that! I can just…I can’t explain it. It’s just a sense. It’s…”

“I. Do. Not. Care,” Han says, emphasizing every word. Clearly, they’ve had this conversation before.

“I’m not back,” Jyn confirms. “Or…half back, I guess? Contract work?”

“Running a mission for the Rebellion?”

“Opening a channel to do that. Freelance, sort of.”

“Sounds like you’re not too happy about that.”

“Still haven’t processed it.”

The door behind them opens, discharging Cassian and Leia, both of them trying to talk at once: Leia still angry and Cassian still defensive.

“…thought you’d understand…” is all that Jyn catches of Leia’s side.

“…couldn’t just go back into that!” is what she catches of Cassian’s.

But they both stop when they see their audience, and Leia sighs.

“Back already? How’d it go?” she asks, already crossing her arms in front of her chest, ready to be disappointed.

“Well, _this_ one brought us around in circles for a while, but we didn’t find anything strange. Must have just been a false reading.”

“I didn’t bring us around in circles,” Luke insists. “Those were two totally different mountains.”

“Sure. I’m gonna fall for that one,” Han gripes.

“Hey,” Cassian says quietly, tugging on Jyn’s arm, pulling her down another corridor. “Before they notice.”

Smiling at him, Jyn follows, the two of them slipping away just as Leia starts to join in on the good-natured ribbing of Luke’s navigational skills.

* * *

Jyn never does figure out where her quarters are supposed to be. Part of her suspects that she was never even assigned them; there was something knowing and conspiratorial in the way that Mon Mothma looked at them. Cassian’s room is small, smaller than their rooms on Alpha base, and has a single bed, narrow and unwelcoming, but Jyn’s glad for it.

“What do you think?” Cassian asks, sitting on the side of the bed to remove his boots.

“It’s pretty small,” Jyn says. She lowers herself next to him to do the same, sending him a questioning look.

“No.” A laugh, quiet, and Cassian turns his grin on her. Dimpled. Sweet. She almost has to look away. Almost can’t stand it. “I mean the arrangement.”

“Me? I think it’s perfect.”

The grin dips, slightly, but not entirely. Gets a little sadder, a little more understanding. She hates herself being the cause of it.

“You think I would have a problem with it,” he says.

“I just wonder how happy you can be, like this.”

“Why don’t you let me give it a chance?” His voice is oddly gentle. “Let me decide for once what will make me happy. I haven’t had much of an opportunity for that. I chose you. I chose Rogue One. Both good choices, so far.”

His good mood is surprising. A little infectious. And yet, she doesn’t think she can completely trust it. Maybe it’s just too easy? Maybe she should stop listening to the voice in her head, Draven’s words repeating, his warning that Cassian would never be satisfied if he wasn’t giving everything he could.

“All right,” she says, and she stretches herself out on the bed behind him. She’s exhausted from the battle, from the fear, from the nervousness and tension of the long-feared meeting going so much better than expected. But all that wound-up nervousness goes away in an instant when he turns and looks at her in the dim light.

_It’s too much_ , her brain is telling her. _You are_ feeling _too much. You know that it’s a mistake. You know, and you’re still letting yourself fall into it. You need to protect your heart._

But she won’t tell him that. She won’t let him know. She will swallow it and keep it to herself until she can find a way to make herself trust it. Make herself accept that he isn’t going to leave like everyone else. That his dedication to the Rebellion isn’t going to drive them apart the way she fears it will.

Or she will keep it to herself until it falls apart, and then, at least, she will have the comfort of having done everything she could to protect herself from the inevitability.

She doesn’t think he notices her fear, and that’s good, because she doesn’t want him to. She doesn’t want him to see anything different in the way she kisses him, the way she pulls him close, the way she gasps his name.

She has already given over so much of herself to him. She knows that protecting herself now is too late, that she has already lost the battle. If this was the Jyn Erso of before Scarif, before the Afflictor, before Kazadu, she might have left him entirely. Cut the cord. _Run_ , before he could take even half a step away from her. But she isn’t like that anymore, and she’s never had someone like Cassian in her life before, and even if she could build it up inside herself to steal away, she doesn’t think she would want to.

He stopped her with just a few words, after Scarif. When she hardly even knew him. She doesn’t have a hope of getting away now.

_Protect your heart_ , she tells herself, even as she tucks her head under his chin, their breathing slowing, their body heat warming each other in the protective cocoon of these blankets and this dim, small room. Even as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. Idle. Loving. A promise of permanence that she so desperately wants to believe.

It’s a strange thing, this sense of inevitability, and the way it wars with her certainty that she isn’t going to leave. For the first time in her life, she has some small sense of understanding about her mother’s final choice.

She will trust him. She will give him a chance. Let him make the choice. Let him adapt to it. But all the while, she will guard what parts of her she still can. She will not let herself be blindsided when he starts to look at her with something different, something less, something accusatory and understanding because she cannot give herself to them the way that he does.

She will love him, and she will be ready. And when it happens, she will survive it.

Maybe if she tells that to herself often enough, with enough firm refusal to allow herself to fail, she will start to believe it.


End file.
